Inheritance of Arrogance
by I'll Show You a Sweet Dream
Summary: Beckett has an illegitimate daughter, Veronica Brand, a bad-tempered 11 year old who is being sent to school in England by Cutler. T for cursing and many innuendos in prologue. DISCONTINUED
1. Prologue

**Inheritance of Arrogance**

**I'm back and, once again, out of my mind. I really hope that you don't kill me for my sick, twisted sense of humor, disturbing theories, and a slightly out of character portrayal of Cutler Beckett. But the whole point of this story is to prove that he isn't as much of a cold, heartless bastard as you all thought. Or maybe to prove that he is even more of a sickeningly twisted ass than even the writers suspected. And then there is Veronica, Beckett's daughter. Who inherited all of Beckett's prickly, thorny, cold bastardness, and learned to hone it to an art form in a simple period of eight years. And when Beckett figures out that his son 'Ronni' is actually a female, he utilizes every asset he can lay his grubby fingers on to turn the evil little romp into a young lady. Did I mention that she's eight? And pure evil? Haha… Good luck with that Cutler. Pity the fool he hires to baby-sit. **

**Abandon all hope, for you have just entered… The Doubt zone: a sixth dimension more mysterious, and possibly more perturbing, than even the Twilight zone.**

**Chapter Summary: Some stuff about Cutler and his lover, Maria, how they met, some relatively deep stuff about power, the beginnings of their relationship, etc. The revealing of my theory about what 'mark' Jack Sparrow left on Cutler… Please don't kill me for that one. An explanation of how Cutler maybe isn't as evil as we thought, or perhaps how he is the most evil person to ever bear children, short of the devil himself. Veronica doesn't even appear in this chapter, other than a quick mention. **

**Disclaimer: … What, did you expect me to put something witty here? Think again! I've run out of witty stuff to say.

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**Prologue:**

The slightly shorter than average man slunk ably through the dark streets. At this time of night the only light and sound came from what leaked out of taverns, inns, and houses. Still, he wore a black cloak that covered his entire form, particularly his head. Not as though anyone here would recognise him, in the way that he was dressed at the moment. 'Still,' he thought, 'No harm in taking chances.'

Being in the fairly unfamiliar streets with little light to guide him just made the man terribly confused. This was not helped by the fact that he had downed a few glasses of liquor. All in an attempt to recreate the experience repeated almost every time he came to this port.

Finally he arrived at the familiar alley, which led to a back door of an inn. After striding down to a long corridor, he knocked at the final door on the left, pulling down the hood of his cloak. A pretty woman with faintly auburn hair (it was all fuzz though, held in a ponytail with no rhyme or reason to it) opened the door, looking flustered. Upon seeing the man's face she relaxed and threw her arms around his neck. She was dressed in a chemise, with a shift underneath of that.

"Oh Cutler," she gushed softly, burying her face in his neck. "I thought that you might never come back. I just sent Ronni off to bed an hour or two ago. Why did you not come sooner?"

Cutler Beckett (perhaps not the Honourable Cutler Beckett that many of you know of, after all) wearing no powdered wig, and only a simple white shirt and breeches (plus the essential socks, shoes, and pants, of course) under his cloak felt rather naked. To cover his discomfort he planted her with a swift kiss. He relished the warmth of her touch, though her hands were by far rougher than his. His heart, normally frigid and unfeeling, pounded passionately in his ears at the notion of her wanting him- no, _needing_ him- even after a bit over five years apart. Despite him never having seen their child.

"Work, darling. I am a busy man. But I am here now, only for you. There is no other woman whom I would ever care so dearly for, Maria."

Cutler's voice, known to be steely and cold, was surprisingly gentle and- no, I daren't suggest it, the very notion makes me retch- _sensual_? He actually loved this woman, and if they had lived in another time, if he had been another man, he might have married her. But she was not a commonfellow, and he couldn't marry someone of her status for love, because it just wasn't done.

"In another life, my dear Maria," he would often whisper to her. "In another life I will find you again, and we will be properly married. Be patient, my pet."

Returning to the scene we had been addressing prior to the snippet of interruption. I apologise in advance for any other mindless birdwalks.

Still standing in the corridor, Maria looked up at him, her eyes reflecting her inner fear, her deep-seated need for his touch and his presence. How she depended on him, how she needed him.

"How am I to know if you still love me, when I don't see you for years?"

Oh, and how he so desperately needed her back, to feel power, to dominate her and own her body. The power she gave him… sating his predatory hunger. Despite all of this, she could be fragile, and he tried to behave as though she were glass. But he was human (sometimes even inhuman) and he made mistakes.

"My letters," he replied snappishly, slightly annoyed. He made sure that she always received them.

Not wanting to be caught outside, they hurried into Maria's room. By this time the auburn-haired woman was upset. Her green eyes darkened with a sadness that Cutler could not name, and her lips pursed very faintly.

"My apologies, Mr. Beckett, but I cannot read- if you will recall." Her voice was calm, but laced with her unhappiness, both at this fact, and at her love for not remembering. Beckett regretted his words almost instantaneously.

"Maria, I'm sorry. I- well, I forgot. Please forgive me; I haven't seen you in so long…" As his voice grew quiet and trailed away, it also became more desperate. He knew very well how to manipulate the emotions of his lover to get what he wanted. Maria turned away from the room's only light source, a candle, after gently blowing it out. Her pretty face was slightly twisted in thought, and she felt immediate pity for the father of her only child.

"If you'd like to stay the night, you can meet Ronni in the morning," she finally said, heaving a sigh. "And as for your little mistake…"

Cutler shivered at her slight touch, as her warm fingers played across the skin of his face. He hadn't even noticed her coming closer to him so quickly. It was too dark to see, but he knew that in the near pitch blackness, his lover smiled wickedly.

"As for that, you will have to make that up to me in other aspects. That is, if one thing leads to another in the way that it often does."

Beckett returned the smile, wrapping his arm deftly around her waist. Giving her ear a small nibble made her squirm in his grasp. _This_ was power, the kind that he lived for, but so often lacked. The ability to make someone do whatever he pleased, using only a simply action or movement. And it, undeniably, was the greatest feeling he could imagine. While it lasted, he would drink up every morsel of power.

"When does it not, my pet?"

**(AN: I really didn't like that last part. It was really awkward to write. For the record, there is sex, but I'm not going to write it. I will imply it and hint it, and even show proof of it happening in future chapters, but I'm not writing anything explicit. At this point, the reasoning that I had for mixing the terms 'sex' and 'Cutler Beckett' are beyond me.)

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**-Flashing back to 10 years earlier-**

**(AN: I tell in here that Beckett has a drinking problem. I have decided that he has quit and switched to tea by the second movie.)**

Cutler Beckett, wigless in public for the first time in a long time, sat in a pub, head down on the bar. By this point he was very much drunk, in an attempt to drown his painful humiliation in intoxicating liquor. He had just recently been promoted to Chairman of the E.I.T.C, and he felt as if he had failed his title and his company. If a person came very close to him and listened carefully, they might have heard him whispering to himself.

"Worst… week… ever. I hate my job, I hate my life. I detest Jack Sparrow, and I wish the both of us were dead. Worst… week… ever."

The monotonous chanting went on for a while, in a drunken slur that tainted his normally clipped and proper speech. It would have gone on longer if the barmaid who had been listening in on the entire chants hadn't snapped him with a wet rag. Backett raised his heavy head, one eyebrow quirked. He met her eyes with his steel intensity, but she returned it aptly, his stare being softened and blurred by alcohol. Once his head was fully up, the barmaid lowered her eyes and began wiping the spot where Cutler's head had been resting with the wet rag. Her inquisitive gaze was hidden from view by a fringe of auburn bangs that escaped her up-do.

So Cutler, having had his spot momentarily taken away, put his head in his hands and resumed his self-pity chant. The barmaid slammed the rag down and stood up to her full height, (a not-so-daunting 5'4") hands on her hips.

"What is the matter with you? You've been going on the entire night like some loony. What excuse do you have for that?"

He was surprised, and his jaw dropped a bit at her impertinence. Standing up to lean over the bar at her, his mouth twisted into a cold sneer, and his eyes leered dangerously.

"I am drunk because I am _miserable_. This has been the most ridiculously humiliating week of my career; I'm sure a busybody like you would want to know why."

Cutler rolled his eyes, picking up his drink to take another hearty gulp. The woman's hand snatched it away from him. A miserable drunk like this one always struck her interest.

"Yes sir. I would like to know why. That is, if you don't drink yourself to death first."

Issuing a challenge to him, which went, for the most part, ignored. As though he didn't hear her, he reached out for his drink with groping hands. His eyes were full of fear at the prospect of his only form of escape stolen from his grasp. They just wouldn't let him forget and drown himself in pity, would they?

"Give that back! I order you to return that rum to me _this instant_!"

The woman only smirked at his desperation. "It must have been nightmarish for you. Terribly humiliating, I can tell." Now that she began to think about it, her cruel smirk softened a bit in sympathy. Beckett sat back down and sighed. There was no way to escape, it would seem, from the memories that tortured him.

"It all started when I learned that Jack Sparrow, a merchant sailor whom I had employed to deliver a cargo of slaves to the Americas, had turned around, and was now sailing back to Africa to return them. We chased him down and sunk his ship. I personally branded him a pirate… then it happened."

He paused a moment to shudder. The only reason he was even telling her any of this was because of how drunk he was.

"You see, Miss…"

"Maria Brand."

"Ah, yes. You see, Miss Brand, when I get very upset, I begin to drink in excess. It is a high-viced habit, and I realize this with great shame. Well, I was very much perturbed by the entire incident, so once I had returned to a suitable port, I put on this very same 'disguise,' (you don't think I dress like this all the time, do you? I have a wig too, it's very nice.) and began perpotating. And, coincidentally enough, Mr. Sparrow was also there. By the time we saw each other we were drunk enough to not properly recognise each other. Or, perhaps he recognised me and pretended otherwise to seek his revenge.

"We greeted one another like old friends. (Imagine that- me, friends with that dirty whoreson!) I ordered another drink for us both. Apparently one thing led to another very quickly, because the next thing I remember after that was waking up just before dawn to find myself entirely naked, encased in the man's arms. I had too big a headache to do a thing about that terrific **((AN: in the 18****th**** century, terrific meant bad))** incident. When I next awoke it was nearly noon, and that wantwit had stolen five pounds sterling from my very pockets! And he left a note…"

By now he was sobering up a bit, and his face revealed how mortifying the whole ordeal was for him. He took a few moments to frantically root through his pocket until he produced a scrap of parchment. Maria, however, did not know how to read. Instead she blankly stared at the scrawled writing, unblinking.

"Er… I can't read the handwriting. What does it say?"

With a slight skinquake, Cutler softly read the words.

"You've left your mark on my skin. Now I have left mine. Be glad that you are still able to produce offspring, as I have recently proved. Next time we encounter, you may not be so lucky. Signed- Captain Jack Sparrow."

"Can I please have my rum back?" He warbled miserably.

Maria consented, nodding thoughtfully. Jack Sparrow… He seemed a man for whom taking away others' power was what made him who he was. This man before her was made who he was by having power over others, and maintaining a cold, cruel demeanor. Having the upper hand over everyone, and being the slyest in the metaphorical room. Having his power taken away without warning (or his rum, for that matter) threw him into a blind panic. He absolutely fascinated her.

"You need… power. The ability to assert yourself in a situation. He took away your control, and now you're a poor little wretch. What _is_ your name?"

He glanced from his drink and set the bottle down. "The Honourable Cutler Beckett, Chairman of the East India Trading Company at your service."

"Well, Cutler Beckett…" She paused, trying to hide the wicked smirk that insisted on crawling onto her face. "Perhaps the key to having your power back is through what has taken it away."

'What am I suggesting?' Maria thought nervously. 'Although it isn't as if he isn't good-looking. Maybe even handsome in better lighting. And he is a fascinating man. Besides, it isn't as though the drunkard will ever come back. It couldn't hurt to mend _one_ broken ego.'

"What are you suggesting?" Beckett drunkenly echoed her thoughts.

She bit her lip in thought. "Whatever might happen when one thing…"

She lightly touched his hand.

"Leads to…"

She slid her hand up his arm, then ran her fingers through his mussed brown hair.

"Another," this last word was a delicate whisper.

Her fingertips brushed his face, dancing across his clean-shaven and smooth skin. He was speechless, cornered by his drunken lust and his thirst for power. Maria would allow him- maybe just for this once- to have complete power over her body, without even considering the consequence for over a minute. For the first time in his life, Cutler Beckett foolishly believed that he had caught himself falling in love. And indeed he would grow to love her truly, one day. But that day would come too late.

"I can leave this rathole anytime that I please. Nobody will even notice that I'm gone."

Beckett took her hand and kissed it lightly.

"I would notice, Maria, if you departed without me now," he slurred, smiling slyly. He had her now, and he would do anything he could to keep it that way.

That day, a new side of Cutler began to develop. A side that only one woman would ever see. And though he would always lust for power and ultimate control, that single woman would satisfy his craving and sate him with her touch. It was never really about love from the beginning. It was never about love at all. It was a spark of power that ignited to a flame that would fuel the passionate affair between them. But love? Oh no, they were simply fooling themselves about that.

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**Please don't murder me. If you would like to do the next best thing and spam me with reviews and hate PMs, feel free. Just don't kill me. Review, my kittens, for I would like feedback from my wonderful audience! My story can be categorized into three categories for three different types of readers:**

**1. Just plain strange: This would be the average reader or a fangirl of characters that have not yet appeared or are mentioned in the story.**

**2. Disturbing: This would be a die-hard fan of PotC, or a fangirl of Cutler, Jack, or both.**

**3. Sexy: Because I know that some of you weirdoes actually like to read this stuff. No, I'm just joking. Nobody likes to read this stuff. But if you do, you are a weirdo. **

**Thank you, my kittens, and I shall see you next time!**

**- The Lady Doubt de Chagny**


	2. Chapter 1

**Inheritance of Arrogance**

**Because I am too proud for my own good, I wanted to wait to post this chapter until I had more reviews than the measly few that I got. I guess it isn't happening. Thank you to those of you who did review my humble fic, despite the fact that it was a suck prologue, and Beckett was really out of character. I must ask you this: if you read, please review. I need to know what the majority thinks of my stuff. Thank you. Oh, and by the way, I needed to tweak a few things, regardless of the impossibility of it all, and make Veronica eleven. Heh, heh… Well, on with the show!**

**Chapter Summary:**

**An eleven year old Veronica- who has been established as a female, despite the fact that her dear old dad didn't know- is selling 'questionable meat' sausages in a stall in a bustling town, and she's eventually going to be engaged to her partner-in-crime/business, Beau. However, Beckett discovers her and takes her away, planning on making her go to a boarding school that will turn her into a lady. The preferred method of transport is proven faulty, so Veronica will have to be taken on another, less desirable ship. And guess who gets to baby-sit… **

**Disclaimer: I didn't have anything witty to say in the first place. You people are so demanding. I own nothing of value. I'm not sure if people wrote wills in the 18****th**** century, but let us please pretend; pardon my laziness. I did look up the coinage worths, but I'm not positive how accurate they are.**

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**Chapter 1:**

The town bustled with life, and the stench of the place proved it. Among it all, a ten year old girl sat behind a stall, fingers steepled, lost in thought. Her business partner, the twelve year old boy named Beau, stood outside and put his loud voice to good use, advertising the sausages that they sold. The ten year old was not only thinking, but planning. If all went well with the mystery-meat sausages, she might be able to scrape together enough money to start buying the flour to make meat pies in great quantities. Mostly with cats and scraps, and the like, but meat pies, nonetheless. And if she got married to Beau- oh, how the idea made her shudder in disgust- she would become related to a butcher. Fancy that! A woman who baked meat pies, married to a butcher's son.

The girl had the look about her of someone who would be very pretty if they weren't perpetually covered in grime, dirt, sweat, and a light sprinkling of chicken blood. But she wore the filth like a badge of honor, proof that she could survive mostly on her own. (Beau's family had been kind enough to allow her a residence in their hectic household. Well, it had actually been rather calm before she came along…) She was proud of her ability to survive, and even thrive like a weed after her mother's death. Well, maybe not a weed, because weeds get bigger at a very rapid but steady rate, while Veronica Beckett- for it was she- was not born into height, and at 4' 7", she didn't seem about to get much taller until puberty.

"Ronni?" The petulant boy asked, stumbling behind the stall. "Er, there's a wary customer, miss. We need more sausages."

Veronica waved her hand vaguely. "Oh, ye know perfectly well where ta find 'em, ya wantwit. No need to ask permission. And remember, my name is Miss Veronica, and ya will refer to me as such, me bein' your boss."

Her voice was filled with a natural coldness, and smooth as an eggshell on top of that. But it was an unruly, defiant voice, uneducated and unclipped. And the cant that she had picked up made her voice seem all the stranger. Her voice was a walking contradiction.

Beau looked down like a kicked dog and rushed off to get the sausages from inside the bucket where they were kept. The sausages were made of any scrap of meat they could snitch and grind up, and wrapped in intestine of pig, cooked at Beau's own home, and kept in a bucket of chicken blood for safekeeping. Speared on a skewer, they were ready to eat- although soaked in blood and not very appealing to the eye, nor the tongue.

Beau scrambled out, his awkward limbs flailing. He was the kind of boy who seemed to be made entirely of elbows and knees, and whose appendages appeared to be attached flimsily by safety pins. Veronica practically winced whenever she saw him, because she thought that something might snap off whenever he moved strenuously. She never actually winced, however, because she didn't have the proper amount of pity in her cold heart to produce a sympathetic wince. It was not a pretty sight when she attempted.

The ragged-looking, and slightly drunk man who awaited his sausage, and was unsurprised by the poor quality, managed a wince for the boy and paid him a few pence. Beau ran behind the stall, where the curtain was closed, and spoke in a hushed tone to Veronica. The man began walking away, when he heard such a familiar voice.

"You fool! This is seven pence, ya thick-skulled idiot, and the sausage costs a shilling!" Veronica cried, smacking her slow assistant with her filth and blood-covered hand.

The man stopped, surprised to hear such a familiar tone accompanied by such language. But it must be someone else; that voice was of a foul-tempered young girl who had just been paid less than she was due. James Norrington, recently retired from his post and come to this port on his way to Tortuga (he had wanted to visit his sister's grave before fully becoming a worthless sod who woke up hung-over and drank until the headache went away) turned to face a red-faced, short ten year old girl with filthy, dark hair and such similar facial features. However, they were distorted into anger that made them unrecognizable.

Veronica Beckett took after her father in the sense that she was greedy and selfish, and would stop at nothing to get what she needed and wanted. In fact, she would willingly go to great lengths to follow someone who she felt had cheated her, or at least she would have hired someone to do it for her. She could get her hands dirty, but only to a certain extent.

James looked only slightly impressed by the rage expressed on her features. If only they weren't so smeared with grime; then he could recall why she seemed so similar. Her stone eyes, the dark hair (or perhaps it had just gone unwashed for so long that it seemed dark) and her thin, twisted lips. Everything slowly struck him like a rubber mallet striking his knee, or perhaps it was his wariness at the fact that the girl was brandishing a large skillet. He took a few stumbling steps back towards her, a very unwise thing to do.

Veronica's arm swung up to beat him with the pan, although it appeared that her arm wouldn't complete the full ark, for the weight of the skillet. James waited until her arm was traveling on the short, fast journey to his midsection. This was followed by a 'thunk' and an audible groan. Next, Veronica fell on the ground, collapsing. Norrington was left standing there for awhile, after having knocked out the ten year old with a hard blow to the head with the back of his pistol. He walked away, not feeling at all guilty.

Beau scrambled out from behind the stall and dragged Veronica behind it. An hour later she awoke, and feeling the bump on her head set her eyes ablaze.

"That man… I know I'll meet 'im again," she growled. "An' when I do… Trust me, it's no' goin' ta be pretty."

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About six months after the incident, Veronica was sitting behind that same stall, tossing a farthing up into the air and catching it. Her stony eyes never left its shimmering surface. The pies had been a disaster from the start; it was the kind of disaster that you knew was going to happen, but which you found to be an inevitable step. The kind of disaster that lost you two crowns, and nearly got you kicked out of your current residence. But Veronica had learned a good lesson from that incident: she was a fair cook to be sure, but when people found out what you were using as filling, it was time to stop making pies.

To take her mind off of the problem at hand, she tallied up expenses, subtracted them from the gross, and estimated her portion of the profits. Her mind was busy at work counting up any debts owed to her, plus estimated interest. What a beauty was math. She had the brain built for handling money; she contained the shrewdness, cunning and greed of her never-present father, and the quick-thinking of her supposedly late mother.

Veronica's concentration was broken by the thought of her mother. It was why those men were here. Every time the very name came to mind, she felt a little shudder go through her. Maria had been as good a mother as a full-time whore could have been; Veronica was at least well taken care of until she took ill. For a time after that, all thoughts were incoherent blurs, passing before her mind's eye. Nothing had made sense, nothing had fit. Until she discovered the sanctuary of numbers, and worked up the guts to flee from her dying parent, and throw herself upon the mercy of her mother's frequent 'customer.' Still, Veronica could not spare the wretched contempt and disgust that she had for all wanton women (or maybe it was because of her mother that these feelings existed).

She had been instructed to wait outside while the men talked it all out. They had made infrequent visits, beginning with a boy who came with news of Maria Brand; it would seem that her mother had not died- in fact, she had been well aware of Veronica's whereabouts for some time. Maria was simply very ill, being taken care of by her brothers (unintelligent, but rather dedicated lads). The short one returned twice more, and once spoke to Mr. Vendrom, before bringing the others. They all wore a uniform, and a few had wigs. The men had never actually seen her.

Beau stumbled out, falling all over himself in the process, and sat by Veronica. She ignored him, out of habit. He was thirteen now, and had begun to grow enough sense to not be terrified of Veronica. Of course, he still feared her slightly, but not as much as he previously had.

"Miss Brand, they're talking 'bout you, ya know."

Beau's voice had gotten deeper, making him seem less like an awkward child, and more like an awkward teenager. Veronica noted this, but didn't particularly care. She'd do anything to keep her mind off of the inevitable.

"Yes, Beau… I do know. Just wish they wasn't, I s'pose. Wish they'd all bugger off."

They sat in silence, contemplating. Vendrom had demanded they wed, despite protests from both sides, and claims that they were actually of a different gender than they were. He wanted grandchildren to carry on the family business before he died, since he figured that Beau was either completely useless or just plain dangerous with a butcher's cleaver. Veronica could handle money, and was a natural schemer, so having her in the family could only bode well for him.

There came a peal of loud, uproarious laughter from inside the house/ store. Startled, the two of them leapt up and peered into the window. Vendrom was sitting on a stool, laughing, and several men in uniform stood, unamused, around him. A particularly short man in a wig smiled mirthlessly at him, and put out a hand, as though to shake. When Vendrom tried to grab his, the man recoiled and shook his head. Without a word, he dropped a few coins (they couldn't see how many, or what kind) into Vendrom's hand and turned to leave.

Veronica caught her first real glimpse of the short man's face, and gasped. His features very nearly mirrored her own, from the set of the jaw to his stony and cruel eyes. He carried himself with an air of self-satisfaction and smugness. All of the men accompanying him must have been guarding him; he obviously had quite a few unsavory enemies. Veronica's stomach sank into her boots as she realized his purpose for being here: her father had come, and he was here to take her away, just as Maria had feared. In a few short moments, they were outside, grabbing her arms and shuffling her away. She did not resist.

As though she were some sort of criminal, they stood all around her as they dragged her to the docks of the town. Veronica grumbled to herself, and muttered a few of the curses that she had picked up from her mother and Vendrom. The soldier escorts looked at her incredulously, not really expecting that kind of language to come from her. The short man stiffened up when he heard those mumbled words, and Veronica smiled when she imagined the expression on his face. Likely one of annoyance that his own daughter could curse like a sailor. Well, did he expect her to act like a lady, just because they happened to be directly related?

The soldiers brought her onto the _Endeavor,_ a rather grand ship that was docked near the end of the pier. Their grip on her restricted Veronica's movements, and if not for the fact that she was surrounded on all sides and held tight, she would have fallen on her face when crossing the gangplank. Veronica felt sick the second she stepped onto the ship. She was not built for the sea- the very though of its movements made her seasick, and at a young age she had vowed to never board a ship willingly.

The short man prattled a few minutes about his ship, the Endeavor, flagship of the Navy, etc, etc, etc. Veronica rolled her eyes and quietly scoffed. Oh yes, this was most certainly her father. He seemed to be the most pompous, full-of-himself, and of the highest authority on the ship. Anyone with those three characteristics was seen as a likely candidate for her mystery-father. Where else would she have gotten her more outlandish qualities?

"Yes, yes, that's all very well and good sir, but what exactly are you plannin' ta do wif me?" Veronica interrupted, not in a very good mood with this man, or with her complaining stomach.

He went on as if there had never been an interruption, which drove Veronica absolutely crazy. She stomped down on the foot of the man who was holding her left arm, which got no reaction. Damn him for wearing shoes!

"Sir!" She shouted, allowing time for the word to settle and everyone to stop speaking. "Sir, what exactly are ye plannin' ta do wif me?"

Beckett smirked, for indeed it was he, and peered down at the very small form of his daughter. "Why Veronica, I thought you would have figured it out on your own. Boarding School, of course. I can't allow my daughter to be seen in boys' clothes and rags, selling particularly questionable meat at a roadside stand."

Veronica felt the remainder of her organs sink into her boots.

"Release her," Beckett said coldly to the men.

As soon as they did, Veronica ducked and crawled away speedily. She made her way towards the side of the ship, and then jumped. Because the swaying of the ship had put her a bit off balance, the act of jumping in this case was just a series of movements that led to plunging headfirst into the Caribbean Sea. It was just as well that she couldn't swim very well, and was caught in moments.

"I'd rather drown than go to some bloody school! This body was no' meant for dresses! I object ta this cruelty!"

Beckett ignored the shouting, and had her cuffed. Once they let go of her wrist, she swung at the soldiers with the cuff irons, and made another hasty escape. Veronica was learning very fast that water, no matter how soft and warm it looked, was rather cold and unforgiving when you took multiple head-first plunges into it within a half hour. The next time she was retrieved, she was locked in the brig. After they had been sailing for nearly twenty minutes, the young sailor set to guarding her cell was so sick of hearing her wail and complain that he unlocked the door.

"Alright, I'll let ya out, but you hafta stay below-" he began, but was cut off by Veronica's swift kick to the crotch. Luckily for her, the young sailor was equipped with a proper set, and fell to the floor, clutching his groin and whimpering. Veronica scrambled up the ladder out of the hold, and dashed to the bulwarks and heaved herself over. Once again, she was retrieved within the hour, dripping wet, angry, and proud. Beckett felt that this was quite enough.

"Veronica, you will behave and desist from your _suave qui peut_ else you may be left without a home to return to when you do leave Boarding School. Beau and Monsieur Vendrom might be convicted on any number of charges, and who will be there to prove them false?"

She raised a single satirical eyebrow, obviously unimpressed. "Sir, I'm s'prised with you. I woulda thought ya would have figured it out by now, me being your spawn: I don' really care what you do ta anyone I know, save for me. And 'urting me yourself, well that's just not how you work. I can tell just by looking at ya."

"You mother, then?"

She shook her head.

"Your pie business?"

She shook her head again. "That was a disaster. Never goin' back ta that again."

Beckett thought for a moment, and then it dawned on him. This was his daughter he was dealing with. The only way to hurt her, to deal a severe blow, was to take away what she desired most…

"If you do not attend boarding school, I will leave you out of my will," Beckett said smugly.

Veronica's mouth dropped open, feeling almost as if he had just slapped her across the face. He couldn't! She was his only heir… wasn't she?

"You… ya wouldn't! Ya can't _do_ that!" She shouted hatefully.

"Indeed I would, Veronica, if you misbehave. Also, I have come to the conclusion that this vessel is not capable of keeping you safe; you will be traveling to England on the _Flying Dutchman_, accompanied by Admiral Norrington."

A tall man that looked extremely familiar stepped forward nervously. He had good cause for anxiety, but greater cause for embarrassment. Beckett was assigning him to babysit, all things considered. Beckett later told the Admiral that this was because James was the only man he knew he could trust to take care of his daughter, and not be fooled by her. Still, the idea of it was almost disgraceful.

Veronica recognized the face instantly.

"You!" she cried, attempting to rush forth. "You're the bastard wot didn' pay! Ya owe me ten pence and a farthing!"

Norrington was taken aback for a moment. "If I recall, your sausages cost only a shilling, and I paid."

"Ye paid seven pence! Ye owe me five pence for the rest o' the shilling."

"Then what are the other five pence and a farthing for?" He glared at her darkly, daring her to go on.

"Interest," Veronica snarled.

Beckett could hardly contain his delight at the squabbling. That was sarcasm, if you didn't catch that. The only good thing about it was that Beckett had found weaknesses in both of them, and you can be sure he would take every opportunity to exploit them.

* * *

**Thank you for reading, my kittens! If you have joined the review revolution or have some advice or criticism, I welcome it, even in PM form. Again, thank you, and have a pleasant day!**

**Oh, and if you're wondering about the dialog, because her speech seems inconsistent, it's just the way I imagine her talking. Sometimes words come out differently depending on the way she happens to be using them.**

**- Doubt de Chagny**


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